


Plausible Deniability

by DragonBandit



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Age Difference, Anti-Mutant Sentiments (Marvel), Gay Mutant Road Trip, M/M, Oblivious Pietro Maximoff, Xavier Institute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-12-18 13:26:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18250763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonBandit/pseuds/DragonBandit
Summary: Kurt and Peter travel across mutant America to recruit for Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. Kurt has a crush. Peter is oblivious.





	Plausible Deniability

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TereziMakara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TereziMakara/gifts).



> The working title for this was Five Moments where Peter didn't know it was a date, and one where he did. Then a lot of the scenes didn't really feel date-like and I had to change it. 
> 
> Hi! I hope you really like this TereziMakara! I was so very happy when you requested this ship, and then was even happier when I got to write it! Some of these scenes are directly taken from your letter, because I too needed those things in my life.
> 
> Beware, there is a small moment in section 3 (Pomona College, California) where a character is subjected to derogatory remarks, and there is a discussion of how this affects that character later. So take care if this is a thing that would affect you.

**0**

**Westchester, New York**

By the time Peter gets to Professor X’s office, the rest of the X-Men are already arranged in a loose circle around the Professor’s desk. The group of them fully taking up the mismatched furniture that is scattered around the spacious room. Jean gives Peter a long-suffering look as he stops short just behind her chair, leaning against the high back on his elbows. 

The professor just smiles at him, “Peter, glad to see you can join us.” 

“Figured I’d give everyone else a head start for once. So what’s the mission? Infiltrating more government bases? Got another megalomaniacal maniac set on world domination for us to kick the ass of?”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Jean mutters, but not quietly enough. 

“Nothing quite that exciting,” Professor X says. “No, this is actually a part of your duties that are new. Or, at least not used since the X-Men were under contract with the CIA. You see, since Apocalypse mutants are once again back in the spotlight. Some of that for good, some of it for ill.” 

Get to the point, Peter wants to say. He shifts his eyes around the rest of the group, taking in Ororo’s tensed shoulders, Scott’s hard mouth under his shades, and Kurt’s almost painfully eager look as he drinks the professor’s words in. They don’t know what this is about either. Great. 

“Either way, it is a publicity that we cannot just ignore, and in fact it would be far more beneficial for the school to use it for our own advantage.” 

“And what advantage would that be, professor?” Jean asks. A blatant attempt to get the guy to speed up already. 

There’s a sparkle in the Professor’s eye that just screams that he knows what she’s doing. “Why, to boost our enrollment numbers of course. There are dozens of mutants around the world who would benefit from the education that the school can provide, and we can increase the public’s view of us at the same time. We can show that our kind is not something that they need to fear.” 

“Let me get this straight,” Peter says, with a slight roll of his eyes, “You want us to go out and knock on doors to spread the good word of our friend and saviour, the Professor?” 

The only one who laughs is Kurt. A little sound that’s quickly muffled by a raised hand over his mouth. 

“Yes!” The professor says, “That’s it exactly. Well, done Peter. I was thinking that you and Kurt would be the best two to start with, as the two of you can get back to the mansion the fastest, and the others all have schoolwork that they need to attend to.” 

Peter waits for Professor X to smile, and say happy Purim, and tell them that they all have extra training with Mystique that they’re late for.

The Professor merely smiles blandly at Peter, and the rest of the group as a whole. 

He’s not kidding. 

“I liked it better when you were asking me to break into the Pentagon,” Peter says. He’s desperately trying to find an excuse to not be a mutant missionary. It’s against his personal beliefs, he’s got to babysit his little sister, oh would you know he’s got to train for the New York marathon, and also every track sport that the olympics has to offer. Peter looks into blue, blue, annoyingly earnest eyes and says, to his own eternal disbelief. “Sure. Sounds like fun. You up for a road trip Nightcrawler?” 

“It sounds exciting!” Kurt says. Of course he does. 

“Wonderful! Now, I’ve taken the liberty of booking the two of you tickets to Illinois. There’s a young mutant there by the name of Kitty who could use some guidance. Pack your uniforms just in case, but I doubt you’ll run into any real trouble. As for the rest of you, Mystique and I have come up with some exercises to help improve your teamwork....”

Peter is aware of being grinned at by fuzzy-blue and too-many-teeth as the rest of the team files out. Hey, hasn’t he been threatening to take Kurt somewhere more exciting than the mall anyway? Someone has to show the kid that America has more to offer than cheap commercialism and glitzy lights since Scott doesn’t seem to be leaping at the chance to do it anymore. Maybe this trip won’t be a total waste of time after all… 

**1**

**Deerfield, Illinois**

“This is so totally cool!” Kitty Pryde yells, as Kurt appears behind her in a puff of smoke, and taps her on the back of her shoulder. A demonstration borne from the ever common phrase when two mutants meet each other: “So what can you do?”  

Kitty is about fifteen, hasn’t gone to school since she started falling through the floor and walls, and freaks out her parents on a daily basis by phasing through something she shouldn’t have been near in the first place. Peter is told all of this by the two elder Pryde’s as they sit on the back porch and watch Kitty and Kurt play tag around the Pryde’s expansive backyard. Peter has no idea why he was picked at the person in charge. He’s wearing a faded Eurythmics tour shirt that suffered an unfortunate fate in the washing machine. His jeans are both bright silver, and have holes in them. On the other hand, Kurt is both blue, wearing a jacket so red that Peter is sure that it can be seen from orbit, and is currently tackling their giggling daughter to the lawn before she phases through his body. 

Peter runs through the whole “Come to school and get your GED or SAT’s or whatever the fuck someone Kitty’s age is meant to be getting while also learning how to not fall through your bedroom floor at the slightest opportunity.” There’s now a card for Xavier’s School for the Gifted tucked into her dad’s leather wallet. Peter has a feeling that the phone number is going to get called sooner, rather than later. 

Her parents seem pretty relieved. Peter’s thrown a little by how willing they are to let a couple of strangers into their house, and attempt to, let’s face it, kidnap her daughter to New York. Sure there’s the grilling about where they can find more information, and how Peter himself finds the school but… 

Peter really gets the feeling that they’re glad someone else is taking their kid off their hands. 

He leans against the porch railing, when her parents go back inside, watching as Kurt runs rings around the giggling Kitty. Appearing on top of the swing-set to wave a cheery hello, lounging on the deck chair by the pool, standing directly behind Kitty just to yell “Boo!” and vanishing in his puff of blue smoke as Kitty cries foul.

Actually… Peter narrows his eyes. He’s sure that there’s a pattern there…

Another loop around the garden, and Peter’s sure of it. Kurt’s smart enough not to appear in the same place more than once but he’s definitely got some sort of system down. First he goes high, then he goes low, midfield, far field, mid again but high, before he goes close enough for Kitty to have a chance of tagging him.

He smirks, and zips forward, right into the space Kurt is going to be, and tackles him down when the blue guy finally appears. Kurt goes down, a laughing splutter, “Peter you cheat!”

“Cheating?” Peter says, grin spreading across his face. “Me?” 

“You know exactly what you are doing,” Kurt says. His tail is thrashing at Peter’s ankles, spade tip knocking against his boots. 

“Yeah, and what are you gonna do about it?” Peter asks. And he realises, just a little too late to stop it, that he’d ducked his head down, and just about whispered that in Kurt’s ear. Kurt shudders under him. 

Then his tail wraps around Peter’s ankle, The smile on his face revealing itself to be Kurt’s plotting face. On no, Peter thinks before there’s a puff of blue smoke, and the next thing Peter knows he’s falling from the air, only to land with a giant splash in the outdoor pool. Peter kicks up, spluttering the water out of his lungs. 

“Now who’s cheating!” he yells, with the backing vocals of Kitty’s laughter. 

“What are you going to do about it?” Kurt yells back, and oh that does it. 

Peter hauls himself out of the pool. He runs through a million blue clouds of sulphur tasting smoke, intent on catching up to the still smirking teleporter. Kitty changes sides with every jump, trying desperately to grab either Peter or Kurt when they get close enough, hopelessly outclassed by the other two mutants, and not minding at all. 

Peter never does catch him in the end. Not until it’s long past the time that they should have gone back to the hotel, the sun turning the sky purple as twilight sets in. Kitty pleas with them to stay just a little longer for dinner. She still has so much she wants to know. 

“We gotta bounce,” Peter tells her, finding that he’s actually a little bit disappointed. “But we’ll see you in September, right?” 

“Totally,” Kitty tells him. She comes in for a hug, and Peter spins her around in the air, like he does to Wanda. Kitty’s a lot older than Wanda but she’s about as little. She shrieks like Wanda too, loud and high and piercing through Peter’s eardrums like an air raid siren. 

When he puts her down, she doesn’t let go, instead standing on her tiptoes to whisper in Peter’s ear: “You know I think it’s like, totally cool that you two are together and aren’t afraid to show it to the world. I think it’s really great.”

“What?” Peter says. 

But Kitty’s finally disengaging to give Kurt his own massive hug. This one with a little less swinging around and misinformed declarations of support. 

There’s another round of talking to Kitty’s parents. Peter shakes their hands, feeling like a real adult for the first time in his life. (he’s 26. That’s kind of sad isn’t it). And then they’re finally allowed to vanish. They walk to the end of the driveway, this strange thing of it feeling weird to just teleport away on their doorstep. 

“I am starving,” Peter says, low to Kurt as he wraps his arms around the teleporter. Kurt’s teleportations make him feel motion sick, and he’ll need the support of Kurt’s shoulders when they come out the other side. He’s also more than a little afraid that Kurt will somehow drop him in the jump if Peter doesn’t hang on tight. “Take us to the burger joint on the corner of seventh? We passed it earlier looking for the house.”

“The one with the silly yellow writing and the fat man standing outside it? I remember.” 

“Awesome,” Peter says. He spies Kitty still on the porch, still smiling at them, and shakes his head. “Bye Kitty-cat!”  

“See you in September! She yells.

Peter tosses her one last salute, before he and Kurt disappear in a puff of blue smoke. 

**2**

**Jupiter, Florida**

There is a flyer to a pop-up carnival posted on the hotel noticeboard. Peter grabs it as he and Kurt walk past, back from another Xavier potential graduate. The guy hadn’t been interested, and Peter hadn’t really blamed him. He’d been Peter’s age, and had an even worse time growing up (no Wanda, Peter diagnosed his case as). He’d said in no uncertain terms, that it didn’t matter how much he was paid, he wasn’t going to go live on the other side of the country to live in a mansion filled with hormonal teenagers. 

Kurt tilts his head to read the flowing English, getting the familiar crease between his eyebrows that means he’s translating it back to German in his head. 

“A… carnival?” Kurt asks. “What’s that?”

Peter reels backwards in disbelief.  “You mean you’ve never gone to a pop-up carnival before?” Peter demands. “Do you live under a rock?”

“I lived in Germany,” Kurt says, tone of someone who is trying to be helpful. “We didn’t have many of these there. Or if we did, I didn’t get to see them, thanks to being busy with the circus.”

“Wait, back up. You lived with a circus?”

“Yes! The Munich travelling circus. I was an acrobat. The amazing Nightcrawler!“

“Why aren’t you with them anymore? What happened?”

Kurt shrugs, “Some bad people came to the circus, and decided I would be more entertaining in the fighting pits. I tried to teleport away from them but they had drugged me and by the time I woke up I was in a cage with an electric current running through it.”

Peter winces. “I’m sorry man. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s okay. I am not there anymore. And it is good to remember the happy times before it went wrong. Perhaps if we ever go to Germany I can introduce you to everyone.”

Peter finds that he’s not actually all that opposed to that idea. He thinks about Kurt as a tiny kid, learning how to tumble and all the other crazy shit he does during training that constantly puts the rest of them off guard. There’s just no way to fight against someone who goes through your block by dropping into the splits. 

He shakes his head, getting back on track. “You’re telling me you lived with a circus for years, yet you’ve never gone on a roller coaster? Or— gotten fleeced at a game of ring toss? Won a sickly goldfish by rescuing a plastic duck out of a pool?”

“Yes.”

“Right.” Peter zips to grab the keys to the hotel room. “That’s a tragedy I am not letting live for another second. We are going to this thing right now. Captain’s orders. Come on, come on.” He tugs at Kurt’s arm, pulling him up off the bed. 

Kurt is smiling at him, even as he obligingly lets Peter pull him out of the door, down the stairs and out of the hotel entirely. 

“We should really get you your own pair of goggles,” Peter says. He cups his hand round the back of Kurt’s neck. “Of course you’re like the only person I know who doesn’t want to throw up after boarding the Peter express. Not sure if that would still be true if you tried to keep your eyes open during transit.”

Kurt chokes on a laugh. “Peter express?” 

“Maximoff rail.” Peter riffs, “Quicksilver transport. Two minute rail.”

“No,” Kurt says, vehement even through badly stifled laughter. 

“That one is a bit of a stretch, it would only take me 30 seconds” Peter admits. “Ready?”

Kurt has to take another moment to catch his breath. “ Okay. Ready.” He leans back against Peter’s hand, screwing his eyes shut.

The wind rushes past Peter as he starts to run. The world slows down to a snails crawl. He zips around the frozen pedestrians, and cars moving through the air as if the atmosphere was made of molasses. Kurt is a barely-there weight in his arms, even as Peter hugs him close to reduce on air resistance. 

The carnival is set up in an old field, just a mile or so out from the hotel. Peter smells it before he sees it, the scent of grease and sugar hits like a brick wall. Next is the lights, red and yellow and green flashing against the darkening sky. A line of white picks out the peak of the rollercoaster that’s been set up as the point of pride in the center. A looping metal track that looks satisfyingly rickety that looms over the smaller rides and games. 

Peter positions Kurt in front of the brightest, gaudiest place he can find. The world coming back into focus as the sound of laughter, little kids begging for one more go on the swinging chairs, and vendors enticing people to their section of the park enters Peter’s ears.  “Eyes open, kiddo.” 

“I am not a kid,” Kurt protests. There’s a delighted gasp as Kurt obeys the order. Peter grins, leaning against Kurt’s shoulders. He too, looks up at the bright lights and revels in the atmosphere. There’s no way to be at a Carnival and not feel excited. 

“Pretty impressive, isn’t it?” he says. 

“This is amazing.” Kurt says. “It’s like home but without the tents. I don’t know where I am supposed to look first.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Peter says. His arm doesn’t leave Kurt’s shoulders, and he uses it as a steering wheel to drag the other mutant through the gathered crowd. The two of them get a few odd looks, the way they always do thanks to Peter’s silver, and Kurt’s blue. But not as many as they usually get. That’s one thing that Peter’s loved about these kinds of places. Everything else is such a spectacle, that his general existence as a mutant doesn’t add much to the general weirdness factor that’s already there. 

“Let’s look at the options we got,” Peter says, putting on a voice just to make Kurt grin at him, “We’ve got the kiddy rides for those afraid of heights, the thrill seekers going up on the elevator of doom, the spinning chairs of stomach-flying madness… and.... over there…” he puts his hand on his forehead, squinting dramatically, at the largest of the rides, “I do believe over  _ there _ is the greatest, highest, and fastest roller coaster built on the East Coast after the Cyclone.” 

He turns his grin on Kurt, tilting his head. "So? What's your poison?"

“I know what you want me to say,” Kurt says, “you’re trying to scare me, aren’t you?”

"Who? Me? Never.”

“Take me to the tall one.” Kurt’s lips curl into a teasing smile that shows off all his teeth. “I want to hear how loud you scream.” 

And Peter, just can’t help leaning in ever closer, dropping his voice to a whisper to say, “Oh baby, you didn’t have to take me to a theme park to hear me scream,” right against Kurt’s pointed ear.

He only feels a little bad about it when Kurt chokes on air. Kurt’s tail cuffs him in the back of the head, even as the man himself is still bent over, trying to get a breath of air. 

“Ow,” Peter says, not at all meaning it.

Kurt opens his mouth.

Peter grabs hold of the spade end of the tail, still hovering around his head. He runs his fingers over the little bumps and grooves. 

Kurt’s mouth closes. 

Peter throws the arm not holding Kurt’s tail over his shoulders. “Tall one it is,” he says. “Unless you back out in …3....”

Kurt rolls his eyes, and the next thing Peter knows he’s inhaling a lungful of sulphur smoke. It’s his turn to cough then. Around them there are the concerned and shocked voices of people not used to random teleporting young adults. And behind that the sounds of screaming, and the metallic sound of metal rollers over rails. Peter’s not surprised to find the two of them standing in line for the threatened roller coaster when the smoke finally leaves his eyes. 

“Dude, warn me before you throw us through your weird pocket dimension.” He says.

“Oh, sorry.” Kurt says, “I was worried that we weren’t going to get there in time.” 

“In time for what?” 

Kurt just shrugs. Eyes darting away from Peter’s. Peter smiles, Kurt’s a terrible liar. It’s a major pain during any covert mission, or even just trying to keep the secret location of Storm’s surprise birthday party safe. But Peter likes how it means Kurt’s face is practically an open book in large print. He squeezes the tail in his hand, smiling to himself. 

Kurt’s right: Peter’s a screamer. He taps his fingers on the metal bar of the coaster, waiting for the part where the slow climb up turns into the steep, whirling plunge. The carts are small enough that his entire left side is pressed close to Kurt’s, legs cramped in the tiny box that is not at all decent legroom. 

“Come on, come on, can you go any slower,” Peter mutters to himself as the coaster crawls inch by inch closer to the blue sky. 

The coaster finally slows, balanced on the precipice...

Peter screams the entire way down. After a half second, Kurt joins in. 

**3**

**Pomona College, California**

The sun beats down on the bleached concrete that is most of Claremont. In deference to the sunny weather, Peter’s traded out his normal jacket for a Mutant Pride! shirt that’s gotten a lot of wear and tear on this road trip across the good chunk of mutant America. Kurt’s in a similar state of dress, going so far as to wear shorts that fall down to his knees under a bright neon green tank top that clashes magnificently with his skin. 

“This place better not be expecting formal wear,” Peter says, glancing around the University campus. The map dangles loosely in his hand, the building they’re meant to find circled several times with red marker. “Do you think they can kick us out for not being properly dressed when we’re the ones who were invited?” 

“Why do you have to say things like that?” Kurt asks. “I’m already nervous enough about speaking in front of so many people at once.” 

“Didn’t you used to perform for like, hundreds of people a night at the circus? It’s just a mutant pride student run thing, there’ll be like four people in the whole room. Max.”

“That was different.” Kurt says, hands twisting together in front of him. “In the circus I knew what I was doing. What are we even supposed to talk about?”

“Uhh, l don’t know. Stay in School, don’t do drugs, use your powers for good and not evil?” 

“Neither of us have gone to school.” Kurt says. 

“Two out of three ain’t bad?” Peter says. Honestly he has just as much of a clue as Kurt does. Talking to mutants like them, who haven’t gone to school in years if not at all is a whole different experience to ones who have their lives put together enough to go out into higher learning. Peter barely finished high school. He has absolutely no reason to talk to these people about making good life choices. He’s not even going to be that much older than most of them! 

Kurt of course, the baby, is barely old enough to attend the 101 classes. 

“It’ll be fine,” Peter says, only half believing it. 

Kurt sticks his hands in his pockets, tail curling around his legs. He gives Peter a distrustful, forlorn look. 

“Promise.” Peter says. He tucks Kurt under his arm. “Come on, we’re X-Men. How bad could it be?”

The two of them loop around the campus a few more times. Even with the map, this place is a fucking maze. They’re meant to be north, then south then, Peter doesn’t even know. Between the two of them he feels like they shouldn’t be having this much trouble. Eventually, after what must be the fifth time they’ve gone past this section of the school, Kurt spots the sign propped up outside one of the halls. In brightly coloured text it declares that on the second floor, in room 2.08 the Mutant-Human-Alliance meets. Peter loudly thanks the gods, tugging Kurt forwards. 

The guy standing on a soapbox right next to the little cardboard sign is a little less wanted. Peter hides a grimace as he gets an eyeful of the ugly slogan plastered against soapbox guys broad chest. “Not as nature intended.” And to drive the point home there’s a big old bible quote about Adam and Eve made in God’s image, and God sure as hell didn’t have three eyes. Anti-mutant campaigner. Great. Just what they need

Peter subtly shifts, so that he’ll be between Mr. Bigot and Kurt when they go into the building, but the damage is already done. 

“And look, here comes one now! A true malformation of God’s will. How can you look at at that and think that anyone could find love in their heart for it. Even God in all of his forgiveness, could not forgive that.”

“Hey!” Peter calls out, stepping towards the podium, squaring his shoulders. “You wanna say that again?”

“Peter,” Kurt hisses, “He’s not worth it,” 

Peter shrugs him off, “I’m just going to talk to the guy.” 

It actually goes pretty well until the asshole decks him in the face. 

The next thing Peter knows, there are arms wrapping around his chest, a puff of smoke, and Kurt’s pushing him down to sit on something soft. A mattress.

“I’m not the type of guy who puts out on the first date,” Peter jokes. The usual jumble of disorganised senses that happens after a jump line up to inform Peter that he’s back in the hotel room. No other place on earth smells like floral chemicals with thin enough walls that Peter can hear the talk show from the other room. His nose and eye feel like shit in the glorious way that means he’s probably broken something, and Kurt is staring at him with huge, concerned eyes. 

“I don’t know if I should take you to a hospital,” Kurt says. 

“I don’t need a hospital. He barely laid a finger on me,” Peter says, something twisting in his chest under the weight of Kurt’s disappointed stare. 

“Your nose is bleeding,” Kurt informs him, flat and angry. 

Peter winces. He pinches the bridge of his nose, tipping his head back. Ow. Yeah, something is definitely broken there. Shit. “So that’s why I can taste blood.” 

“It’s not funny!”

“I mean, it’s a little funny. The great superhero Quicksilver getting taken out by a bigot with a megaphone and bad B.O.” 

There is not a measurement large enough for the amount of scorn Kurt packs into one single look. He turns away from Peter, rummaging in his suitcase until he pulls out a green medical kit from underneath all the souvenir T-shirts Kurt collects every chance he has. 

He bats Peter’s hands away from his nose, holding up a wet cloth. Peter’s nose twitches at the acrid scent of pure alcohol.  

“Ow,” Peter says, when the cloth rubs against his split lip and the alcohol burns into the cut. Kurt just gives him another quelling look, cowing Peter into rare silence. 

He sits still, eyes closed, as Kurt wipes away all the traces of blood from his face, bandaging the little cuts around the ball of his eye where the asshole’s class ring nicked at his eyebrow. Kurt splints his nose, muttering a low swear as he has to force the cartilage back into place. His hands are overly gentle on Peter’s face, calloused and broad, leaving paths of heat across Peter’s skin. 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Kurt murmurs. 

“Yeah, I should have, he was being a dick. What was I supposed to do? Let him keep insulting you?”

“Yes.” 

Peter’s eyes pop open, a refutation on the tip of his tongue. It dies immediately. Kurt’s face is so close to Peter’s, close enough that Peter can see little orange flecks in those yellow eyes of his. His teeth are sharp, leaving dents in his bottom lip when he bites down on them in concentration. 

Peter swallows, feeling something in his chest tighten.  

“How old are you, Kurt?” 

Kurt blinks. A brush of dark, dark eyelashes against his blue cheekbones. G-d, he’s barely lost his baby fat. “I think I’m nineteen. Why?” 

Nineteen. Peter’s gut twists. Not even old enough to drink in this part of the world. 

“You think?” 

“The circus had to guess how old I was when they found me. The fortune teller decided I was about six months old, but they didn’t know for sure. I may be older, or younger. Why?”

“No reason.” 

Another annoyed glare. “If you’re trying to say that just because I’m not as old as you are I can’t protect myself, I’m going to kick your ass. I’ve managed to get this far without anyone playing protector for me, haven’t I?” 

“Yeah. You have.” Peter gives him a smile, cut splitting open to drop a new stream of blood down his cheek. “Doesn’t mean that you can’t use back up every once in awhile.” 

Kurt shakes his head. Finally leaning away from Peter. Peter tells himself that he feels relieved at the ability to finally breathe without those eyes fixed on his every move. 

“Come on, we’ve still got a speech to give.” He says, hopping off the bed. “Between your teleporting and my speed, we might not even be late.”  

Kurt’s mouth falls open, turning back to stare at Peter. “You cannot seriously be thinking about going back there.”

“Why not?” 

“Peter, he broke your nose!”

“Even more reason to go! Come on, this is the exact reason that Professor X sent us on this dumb mission in the first place.”

“To get beat up?” 

“To show them that it doesn’t matter.” Peter stresses. He strips out of his shirt—while it would make a beautiful statement he’s not going to show up wearing something with his blood congealing on it. “That it doesn’t matter how hard we get hit, we get back up. It doesn’t matter what people say about us, because we’re still here. We’re still making noise. They’re not getting rid of us that easy.” He finds one of his discarded band T-shirts, by the time he’s gotten it over his head, Kurt’s gaze has dropped to the floor. “Come on, Kurt,” Peter says, half pleading, “we can’t let assholes like that win.” 

“You’re right,” Kurt says. Quiet, and his shoulders slumped. Hands twisting in his lap. “Of course you’re right. I am just disappointed. I thought this country would be different. Better. But still, even in America, there are people who take one look at my skin and my tail and they think that I am a monster.” 

The tension in Peter’s shoulders drops away. He steps back to the bed, cupping Kurt’s head in his hands. “Hey.” He says, soft. “Don’t let people like that get to you.” 

“How can I not?” 

“You just gotta ignore them.”

“Like you did?” Kurt scoffs. “You don’t understand. It’s different for you! You get to pick when to make your battles. People don’t look at you and just know.” 

“No.” Peter acknowledges. “But I know what I am. They say that shit, and it cuts me too.”

Kurt sighs, slumping forward. His head tilting into Peter’s palms. The raised edges of his scar’s are smooth against Peter’s skin. 

Fuck what is he doing… “But hey, who cares what they say. I think you’re beautiful.” 

Kurt smiles, soft and fragile, and Peter feels something inside him just, explode. Nineteen, he reminds himself. But it’s hard to remember why that’s important. Not when Kurt’s looking at him like that. Like Peter’s worth something. 

“Thank you, Peter,” Kurt says. 

And Peter thinks, I am totally fucked. 

 

**4**

**Westchester, New York**

Peter leans against the wall of the ballroom in the mansion—yes the mansion has an actual ballroom what the actual fuck—and tries to look as menacing as possible to the group of teenagers in badly fitting formal-wear trying to sneak past him to get to the punch bowl. Seriously. The punch bowl. Peter may not have gone to prom when it was his turn to be a stupid teenager but even he knows that move. 

The group of teens wisely decide that putting the suspicious metal flask into the tempting pink of the punch is not worth it, and turn about-face, trying to sell Peter on how innocent they are. 

Peter resists the great urge to roll his eyes. 

Actually on second thought— 

A millisecond, and a quick dart there and back, and Peter is the proud owner of a cheap flask of… vodka. Yep, that burn can be nothing else. The punch definitely didn’t deserve that insult. He tucks the flask inside his suit jacket, frowning as the movement pulls awkwardly at his shoulders. 

Peter has this awful feeling that the original suit might have belonged to his dad before Professor X unearthed it out of the depths of a house that hasn’t thrown anything away since before World War 1 and had it tailored it to Peter’s measurements. It’s all dark grey timeless lines filled with subtle malevolence, and the tailor probably got Peter’s measurements wrong, because it feels far too tight across his chest. The only thing he likes about it is that when the fabric hits the light just right the metal threads woven all the way through the cloth give it a subtle glow. That’s also reason number 3 that Peter’s sure that this suit used to be his dad’s. 

Reason 2 cannot be repeated in polite company and Peter is desperately trying to forget that he found reason 2 in the first place because there are some things that you just don’t need to know about your parents. No matter the fact that you only get to see them for five minutes every ten years. 

Peter takes another swig of awful, awful vodka, just for the hell of it. 

The sound system tucked around the center of the ballroom blares out top hits from when Professor X was a teen, with the brief reprieve every so often from something that’s actually been made in the past decade. The dancing going on to the beat is truly atrocious. 

Peter is in hell. 

Prom. For all the kids that didn’t or won’t or don’t get to have the normal high school experience. Because Scott had gotten sad that he would miss his, and Jean had wanted to know what they were in the first place, and it turns out the Professor is actually a giant sap when confronted with Jean’s sad face. So here Peter is, overly sinister suit and all. Chaperoning. 

You know. Because he’s too old to be included in the group who really need a prom. Despite the fact that Peter had spent his  _ own _ prom in the back of a police car, making friends with Officer Sydney after robbing the nearby convenience store of every Peanut Butter Cup that they had in stock.

He’s been trying not to look, but his eyes stray to the side of the room where the other members of his team are without permission from his brain. 

Jubilee is in the center, holding court with a laughing Jean and a smirking Ororo. The three of them are a riot of colour: Jubilee in a pink sleeveless dress that that falls to her mid-thigh, with a longer, transparent over skirt that brushes the very tops of her calves. Numerous plastic bracelets in every colour under the sun jangle from her wrists, while two hoop earrings hang from her ears. Her heels are the tallest of the three girls, and her usual diminutive form has gained the necessary five inches to be at a height with Scott. 

Next to her, Ororo rests her hands on her hips, wearing a light grey suit that Peter is sure came out of his dad’s closet. An untied pink bow tie hangs from a collar that gapes open around her throat, the last three top buttons left open. 

Jean is all dark reds clinging to her curves, orange and yellow peeking out from the slit that travels up the side of her skirt. Her hair falling in loose curls around her face, painted red lips open in a smirking laugh. 

Attached to Jean’s hip is Scott. Ever boring in the traditional black suit and white shirt, though he’s added a dark red tie to the ensemble. Judging by the scowl he’s got on under his shades, he’s the butt of the joke. And the only person laughing harder than his date is— 

Peter swallows, tells himself to look away. 

His gaze rakes over the sight of Kurt in a white suit, red tie glaring against his blue skin and black shirt. Gold dots glitter at the cuffs of his sleeves, and there’s a matching band of gold around the end of his tail just under the spade tip. For the first time in Peter’s memory, Kurt’s hair is pulled away from his face and his yellow eyes are bright with unrestrained mirth. No one should look that good. It’s not fair.

Between the hotel room, and getting back to the mansion, two weeks and change, Peter’s been trying to ignore the fact that his brain thinks that Kurt’s attractive. It’s weird. For a start, Kurt is blue. For two, Kurt is like, the most awkward person that Peter knows. He’s overly earnest, never knows how to read a room, and tells jokes that Peter can’t laugh at without ruining the moment.  For three, the top of Kurt’s head is level with Peter’s nose, and sometimes when Peter’s not paying attention he thinks about how easy it would be to just duck down and press their lips together and that’s just unreasonable. 

Before he can drag his eyes away, Kurt looks straight at him. For a moment, Peter is caught. Reeled in like a fish with laughing yellow eyes, and a grin with too many teeth in it. Peter’s stomach swoops down to his knees and up to his throat. Then Kurt is turning away to say something to Jubilee, that grin given to someone else. The spell breaks. Peter left on the outside. On the other side of the room. Chaperoning. 

Peter tips his head back to the ceiling, before turning his glare on the latest group of idiot teens who want to try their luck to sully the sanctity of the “no alcohol” rule. The group slinks away under the force of Peter’s scowl. Yeah, run from the scary authority figure. That’ll teach them. There’s a tightness in his stomach. His feelings hard under his ribs like little diamonds. It’s fine. Peter gets it, he’s not one of them, not really. He’s just the loser that doesn’t know how to make friends with people his own age. 

There’s a puff of blue smoke, and the smell of sulphur, and a hand with only three fingers landing on his shoulder. Despite everything, Peter can’t help the warmth that spreads throughout his entire body at the simple touch, turning the rocks in his chest to butterflies. He turns his head, not at all surprised to see Kurt grinning up at him. 

Peter shakes his head, giving Kurt an answering smile. “Man, I was literally on the other side of the room from you. Did you really need to bust out the teleports?” 

“You didn’t tell me that you were going to be here.” Kurt says, completely ignoring Peter’s question. “In fact, I am sure that you weren’t interested in it at all and were going to go and watch cartoons with your sister because it would be more entertaining.” 

Peter hides a wince. “Really? I said that?”

“You were very insistent.” 

Yeah… that, had been the plan hadn’t it. Go home and drown his sorrows with ice cream and quality Wanda time. Then of course… “Professor X said that he needed me to keep the peace,” Peter says, with a roll of his eyes. “Apparently you kids can’t be trusted not to be too wild without an adult nearby.” 

“You count as an adult?”

“I’m just as surprised as you are.” Peter says, smiling. It doesn’t feel right on his face, and judging by Kurt’s expression he doesn’t buy it either. He changes tacks, “Nice suit.” 

Kurt blinks. “Thank you. Jubilee picked it for me.” 

“Girl’s got good taste,” Peter says. 

Kurt’s tugs at his blazer, drawing Peter’s eyes to the broad shoulders perfectly filling out the white fabric. He’s never noticed before how built Kurt is. Must be all that acrobatics as a kid… Peter realises he’s staring, and hastily looks back up to Kurt’s face. Doesn’t look like he noticed Peter staring. 

“I wish you had told me you were coming. I would have worn a different tie if I had known.” Kurt’s nose wrinkles, “Ororo asked if Scott was my date earlier.” 

Peter takes another glance at Kurt’s red tie, and then at Scott’s equally red ensemble on the other side of the room. “You mean you’re not in a super kinky threesome with Scott and Jean?” He asks, all faux innocence and big eyes. He’s rewarded with Kurt bursting out in peals of laughter. 

“You can’t just say things like that!” Kurt says, between the giggles. His tail swipes happily behind him, spade end flicking up and down like an interested cat. 

“But Kurt, if I can’t use the colour of your tie to determine your date, how will I ever know the identity of whatever poor girl you convinced to come here and then ditched as soon as you knew that little old me was available to bug?”

“I didn’t come here with a date.” Kurt says. And he looks at Peter, saying something with his eyes that Peter doesn’t know how to interpret. “The only person here for me to bug is you.”

Peter opens his mouth. Closes it. He coughs, turning away from too-earnest eyes. 

“Well here I am,” He says, and his voice sounds brittle and too-faint even for his own ears. “Bug away.” 

He feels Kurt lean back against the wall next to him, close enough that their arms brush together. 

“Was your prom like this?” Kurt asks. 

For a moment, Peter doesn’t know how to answer that. “There were a lot less mutants at my prom.” He hedges, “the music was worse, and the food was crap. More beer too, probably.” 

Kurt flicks an interested look up at him. 

Fuck. 

Peter sighs, gives up. He just can’t lie to that face for long. “I dunno, actually. I never bothered going.” 

“Why not?” 

“I wasn’t really into the whole prom thing when it was my turn to do all this.” He waves his hand around the room, “No date, no friends, no going to school in the first place by senior year anyway. It just wasn’t my kind of thing. Who wants to sit on the side-lines and watch everyone else have fun without them, right? I only found out that it was happening when I ended up sharing my nice warm jail cell with the star quarterback who was either drunk or high… or both. Probably both. And he looked at me and asked what the fuck he’d done to have to be in the same room as klepto boy.” 

He stares out at the panelled wood walls of the ballroom, sure that he’ll see pity on Kurt’s face. Or maybe outright disgust. Surprise, under Peter’s super cool exterior he’s so messed up that he has multiple felonies to his name. His hands fiddle with the metal threads in the suit jacket, pulling and picking at a loose thread until he’s close to ruining the weft of the fabric. There it is. Now everyone knows what a loser he is. 

“You know,” Kurt says, voice soft, “You’re not alone now.” 

Peter stills, not expecting that tone of voice now. He’s not expecting Kurt’s hand, gently wrapping around his own fingers, and pulling his hand away from his sleeve. Peter looks up, lips pulled into an uncertain frown that Wanda teasingly insists makes him look like a frog. 

“Yeah?” His voice is thick. 

Kurt just smiles. “Dance with me?” He’s tugging Peter to the outskirts of the dance floor before Peter gets over enough of his shock to remember the word “no.” 

Peter’s expecting it to be awkward. In his head he’s already rehearsing the apology he’ll have to make when Kurt realises what a bad idea this was. At Peter’s Bar Mitzvah he stepped on the feet of every girl that accepted to dance with him (all two of them) and while he’s been to clubs, that’s less dancing and more standing in a crowd grinding against his partner. Those definitely aren’t appropriate dance moves when surrounded by teenagers. Even if the teenagers themselves seem to disagree. But Kurt laughs at him, twining their hands together and leading Peter in a loose waltz around the dance floor. The two of them weaving around the other occupants with an ease that Peter had not known he was capable of.  

The dance is old fashioned, straight out of something from the old movies that his Mom watches on repeat, but Peter finds that he doesn’t mind at all. It’s easy to lose himself in the feeling of Kurt’s broad fingers against the skin of his hand, the warmth of Kurt’s smile as he gazes up the scant three inches of difference in their heights. His tail brushes occasionally against the back of Peter’s knees, the spade tip tickling the sensitive spot even through the cloth of Peter’s suit pants. 

“Hey you with the pretty face, Welcome to the human race,” Peter mumbles along with the song playing over the speakers. “A celebration, mister blue sky’s up there waitin’, And today is the day we’ve waited for.”

He’s stopped worrying about stepping on Kurt’s bare feet, letting himself be twirled around as Kurt desires. 

The track is slow to wind down. Going from an upbeat jig to something slower, more intimate, before it finally reaches its end.  Peter expects Kurt to let go of him. Especially when the next songs’ tempo is equally as slow. But instead of getting off the dance floor, Kurt’s arms loop around Peter’s neck, and Peter ends up with his hands resting on the bones of Kurt’s hips. The fine fabric of the white suit jacket warm against Peter’s skin. He can feel every nerve ending in his fingers light up, so aware that there’s only a handful of inches between them like this. 

“I’m not gonna leave fingerprints all over this am I?” Peter jokes, ducking his head as he and Kurt sway gently to the music. “I feel like I’m going to find out that I’ve got something pink and sticky all over my fingertips and you’re going to have to walk around for the rest of the night with this giant hand print on your hip.” 

Kurt smiles at him, soft even with all those pointy teeth. “I can always take the jacket off if you ruin it.” 

“Man no, that makes me feel even worse. Then you’ll be wandering around in half a suit and it’ll be all my fault.” 

“It would have been worth it.” The smile turns a little wicked, “And besides, your handprints all over me would make an interesting pattern.”  

Peter opens his mouth, trying to work out how to respond to that in a way that isn’t absolutely incriminating. The rest of him is making a case for what other interesting patterns he could make all over Kurt’s body. His imagination doesn’t bother stopping at just thinking about his hands. Peter’s sure that he’s blushing, red staining the bridge of his nose. Not for the first time Peter curses his pale as shit complexion.

“Well in that case, any particular pattern you have in mind?” Peter says, shifting one of his hands so it brushes against the bottom of Kurt’s rib cage. Kurt shudders slightly–-must be ticklish or something. “Should I go find a bucket of coloured chalk to dip my hands into and make sure you have to see a dry cleaner before you can give this back to the professor?”

The saner parts of Peter clamour at him to explain what the fuck he thinks he’s doing. Unfortunately for them, they haven’t been in charge of Peter’s brain since he was about six and wanted to know what would happen if he touched the stove right after Mom had used it to make pancakes. So he leans even closer to Kurt, disguising it under the aimless, circling swaying that is this dance, watching as those yellow eyes grow wide and Kurt’s lip catches under his pointed teeth. 

“How about it?”

“Geeze, Maximoff. Looks like you’re the one who needs a chaperone.” Scott’s voice splits through their private bubble. And Peter is suddenly, intensely aware that somehow he’s gotten so close to Kurt that they’re basically breathing in each other’s air. 

His spine goes ram-rod straight, hastily stepping backwards. Kurt’s arms fall back to his sides. Peter sticks his hands in the pockets of his jacket. 

“Right. Chaperoning. That’s what I’m here for. I should go back and do that. Now.” Even with the clipped sentences, Peter’s sure he’s talking too fast. “Gotta make sure that none of you have ruined the sanctity of the punch. Bye.”

Peter doesn’t hear Kurt’s aggrieved, “Thanks Scott.” Or Scott’s laughing response, that it’s not his fault that Peter can’t take a joke. 

Peter stays on the edges of the ballroom, going back to glaring, playing at the adult who doesn’t know the meaning of the word fun, let alone how to have it. He steadfastly tries not to look in any direction that’s likely to have Kurt in it. Peter doesn’t notice exactly when that task suddenly becomes easier; a lack of Kurt found even in the quick glances around the room. He’s too busy trying to calm his racing heart back down to normal levels. An internal litany chasing around his skull. This isn’t how to get over someone. This isn’t how to act around someone that you don’t want to be with. 

He realises that he’s never acted entirely platonically around Kurt, his mind bringing forth all the little touches and jokes and flirtations that hadn’t meant anything at the time but piled altogether mean too much. That’s… not great. He can’t. He needs to knock it the fuck off, before Kurt gets the wrong idea, and Peter hurts him. 

 

**5**

**The Middle of Nowhere**

Peter leans back against the seat of the carriage, pretending to stare out the train window.  Outside the night sky is lit up with a million stars. This far out, halfway between nowhere and limbo, there’s only the endless fields of corn to to meet the horizon. No light pollution to obscure the constellations that Peter doesn’t know the name of. The light from the carriage turns most of the window into a mirror. In the reflection of the carriage, Peter has a perfect view of Kurt’s bowed head, studiously making notes as he switches between a battered copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and a German-to-English Dictionary. In the reflection Kurt’s hair obscures his face, leaving only the curve of his jaw as it leads up to a pointed ear uncovered. Peter’s fingers have been itching to brush that hair out of Kurt’s face since the moment he started studying. 

Kurt’s been doing that a lot on this last trip. The books coming out during every spare moment in the hotels they stay in, or at the diner table. Time that usually he would spend hanging out with Peter, or exploring whatever town or city they were in is now solidly time to study. The closer they get to the mansion, the more Kurt seems determined to bury his nose in a book. Maybe he’s getting anxious about being put in regular classes when they get back to the mansion. Peter doesn’t know. Kurt’s stopped telling him things. 

Sure, they talk. They still eat together, and sleep together and on a few occasions, brush their teeth together. But this last trip, Peter’s felt like there’s something between them. Some wall built out of the way Kurt’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes anymore and doesn’t stay long on his face when Peter does manage to coax it out. Or how he doesn’t come out with Peter to go try on new fashions, or whatever the local food was. Honestly they don’t even talk. Peter just monologues, and Kurt nods whenever he pauses. 

The flirting has stopped. Peter takes care not to touch Kurt without a good reason for it, and he keeps the distance between them. It’s only until Peter has to stop, that he realises how easy it was to let Kurt get into his space. It’s only until he stops that Peter realises how much he misses it. 

Peter isn’t sure why that small difference in how he acts has caused Kurt to push him away. 

Kurt sighs, tapping the base of his pen against the bottom of his lip. Or possibly against his chin. There’s a mutter of German that Peter can barely hear. Something about just saying something plainly instead of hiding it behind metaphors that need explaining in English let alone any other language. 

A second later the books close and are pushed to the furthest edge of the little rickety table of the train booth. 

Kurt rolls his head around his shoulders, finally shifting that bit of fringe so it’s clear of Kurt’s eyes as his neck cracks. He glances in Peter’s direction, and Peter hastily closes his eyes, feigning sleep. He’s not sure he can deal with the conversation that would be Peter creeping on Kurt’s studying via reflection. 

Peter makes sure to keep his breath even, taking deep breaths as his heart picks up. Kurt’s shifting around now, his arm brushing slightly against Peter’s as he puts his books away. He keeps himself loose, relaxed, completely at odds with the goosebumps crawling up his arms. Head dropped against the train window where the juddering reverberations of the wheels turning rattles Peter’s head. 

Then there’s the feeling of thick fingers brushing Peter’s hair, tucking it behind his ear. It’s a struggle to stay still. To not flinch at the unexpected touch. To not lean into it. 

“I would understand if you weren’t interested,” Kurt says, in sleepy German, just audible over the sound of the click-click or the railroad tracks. Peter understands every few words. He’s never told Kurt that he’s technically bilingual, even if he hasn’t spoken anything but English since he was twelve. There’s such a longing in Kurt’s voice that it makes Peter’s chest ache in sympathy. “I am blue, and have scars, and a tail, and I am a man. But you are so beautiful. I thought, I have to try. I won’t forgive myself if I don’t do something. I thought at the dance, maybe you would realise, and act. But instead you’ve stopped touching me now, stopped smiling. What did I do to make you upset with me? Was all your affection just in my head? Love sick imagining? Perhaps I was wrong. I keep waiting for you to say something, but the longer I wait the more that I am sure that you haven’t noticed me at all.”

He sighs, nuzzling into Peter’s side. 

“What will it take for you to notice me, Peter?”

Peter very carefully, for the first time in his life, stays very still, Kurt’s weight sinking into his sides. He gets heavier as he falls into sleep, the way that people do. Kurt snores too, not much, not loudly, but enough that Peter can tell he’s fast asleep when he dares to open his eyes, and stare down at the boy using his shoulder as a pillow. 

His hair’s falling into his eyes again. The thick strands casting shadows across dark eyelashes fluttering against blue cheeks. The full bow of his mouth tilted down into a frown that looks so wrong on his face. Kurt’s tail is wrapped loosely around one of Peter’s wrists. 

Fuck, Peter’s been an absolute asshole. Hasn’t he? 

**+1**

**Westchester, New York**

“So…” Peter says, leaning against the wall. This is what people do, right? Lean against the wall to be casual. “There’s this restaurant over in New Leaf. Supposed to have the best burgers around. And your education of American culture doesn’t end just because we’re no longer on the road, I thought, maybe you’d like to go? With me?”

Kurt smiles. Bright sunlight streaming through the classroom window lights up the blue streak in his hair. “I would like that,” he says. (In the time it’s taken him to respond Peter has thought of seven ways that Kurt could reject him.) 

“Great!” Nope, too loud. Peter tugs at the hems of his sleeves. “I mean, great. Awesome. And we could grab a movie after, your choice. How’s Thursday?”

Kurt gets that adorable little crease in his brow. “Thursday is…good?”

“Greatawesomeseeyouthenbye.” 

Peter is out of the classroom before Kurt can ask what the state of Thursday has to do with anything. 

Dinner was a mistake. Peter realises this when he finishes his burger in about twenty seconds. It’s a good burger, just the right balance of lettuce to meat to tomato to cheese. Peter isn’t normally picky about what he eats, obviously, but there’s a special place in his heart for Mick’s sleepy diner tucked into the heart of the city. It’s not mutant-owned, but the waitress had barely blinked at Kurt’s blue skin and tail. When Peter zips away to order another burger, because you know, he ate the last one in less than half a minute, the only reaction he gets is a warning that the floors just been polished.

Kurt’s tail flicks animatedly by his side, looking around at the interior decorations with interested eyes. Mick’s is almost wallpapered with the old Captain America comic covers they made back in the 30’s and 40’s. 

“Did you ever read these?” Kurt asks, gesturing at one of them. 

Peter shakes his head, too busy being overly conscious of chewing as slowly as possible to reply. There are goosebumps crawling over his skin, he doesn’t think he’s ever been this nervous in his life. Not even facing his dad for the first time after he had known who the guy was had managed to make his heart beat this fast. 

Kurt at least, doesn’t seem to have noticed, and is happy to make wild guesses about the content of the comics they’re surrounded by. Germany doesn’t have the greatest selection of comics, let alone Captain America comics, Peter finds out. Either that or the circus wasn’t a big fan of the kids getting their hands on them. 

“We would have gone out and been superheros,” Kurt explains with a smile, “We were always stronger, faster, and we thought cleverer than the other children from all the working and tumbling we did. It would have been a disaster. I suppose that in my case, not knowing about Captain America didn’t stop me from becoming a superhero in the end.”  

Peter wants to say, “You’re an awesome superhero. Someone should be making comics about you,” but somehow he loses the moment between one mouthful of coke and the inhalation of air. Why is everything moving so slowly? Why can’t he react fast enough? 

He ends up stealing one of Kurt’s fries, even though his own are right there, and Kurt’s are slathered in way too much ketchup to taste of potato. 

Kurt laughs at him, pointing out that somehow Peter’s managed to get Ketchup all over his chin. And shirt. Oops. Then when Peter goes to clean it up, he falls on his ass on the yep, very polished floor. Double oops. Not the worst, he can recover from this, Peter soothes his bruised ego, and his bruised tailbone. Kurt picked the movie. Nothing bad can go wrong at a movie theater right? 

Wrong. 

The movie theater is not as friendly as the diner. Both of them get weird looks from both the employees and other customers, He and Kurt spend the first preview trying to find a way to sit on the already-kind-of-uncomfortable-chairs that didn’t crush Kurt’s tail. (Peter is pretty sure Kurt only pretended they succeeded, judging by his grimace.) But finally,  _ finally,  _ as the lights dim for the start of the real movie—Peter has outright forgotten what it is, he’s so nervous—he gets up the nerve to reach down the arm rest and put his hand on Kurt’s. Kurt turns to look at him, a quizzical tilt to his head. Peter feels his throat go dry. The movie throws gold and greens across Kurt’s skin, and in the darkness of the room his eyes are luminescent. Peter just wants to reach out and—there’s a shriek from the front row. Kurt turns away, and the moment’s lost forever. 

The theater had been nearly empty when they arrived, because, it turned out, most of the seats were booked for a kid’s birthday party. Even at the very back of the room they aren’t safe from the chattering and screaming. It’s so bad that even if Peter wasn’t distracted by Kurt’s everything, he doubts he would be able to tell what was happening on the screen. This. Is. The  _ worst _ . What was Peter  _ thinking? _ God, Kurt must be miserable. Worst date ever. 

Peter’s not even sure if Kurt knows this  _ is _ a date. Maybe that’s for the best. Peter can hide behind plausible deniability and go back to just being friends because Peter can’t do anything romantic to—a piercing whistle blasts through Peter’s eardrums, and something fiery shoots toward the ceiling. Shit. 

Peter is pulling Kurt down and shielding him from the attack long before he hears an angry adult yell, “Where did you get that?” 

In slow motion, Peter looks up and sees the small bottle rocket burst into a harmless puff of smoke and sparks. Nothing. False alarm. The tension winds out of his shoulders, shifting his weight so he’s not leaning over Kurt anymore. He’s about to apologise for freaking out—when the sprinkler system goes pours down on them. Peter hangs his head, as the shrieks of children and the aggrieved yells of adults almost drown out the sound of the machinery. 

He can barely look at Kurt as they exit the theater, standing on the pavement lit up only by the street lights and the occasional car that comes past. Peter’s hair is wet, and the water is dripping uncomfortably down the back of his shirt. He’s sure he looks like a drowned rat. Kurt, thank god, missed the worst of it thanks to Peter shielding him. 

_ I’m sorry. This was the worst date of all time. I understand if you never want to go on a date again. I understand if you don’t even want to be friends with me ever again. If this even was a date. Was this a date? You probably didn’t even know this was a date. This was a terrible idea. I’m a million years older than you and I live with my mom I am SO sorry—  _

Kurt’s arm wraps around Peter’s. “I had a lot of fun.” 

Peter raises his head from his examination of the concrete. “You did?”

“Yes,” Kurt smiles, eyes crinkling. “American children are very loud, and playful. It’s nice.” He tucks himself against Peter’s side. “Though maybe, you should pick the movie for our next date.” 

“Oh. You, you knew that that was a date then. That’s good. That’s really good. Because that was definitely what this was. Because I like you. A lot. I feel like I should be sorry for that too. And sorry it was so absolutely terrible, I think you should be in charge of dates from now on actually, you’re a lot better at them.” He’s an idiot. He can feel his voice rise in pitch with every word until it’s just a too-high too-fast mess that makes Kurt tilt his head to the side in confusion. 

“Peter, my English is not that good,” Kurt says, just a touch exasperated. 

Peter laughs, tipping his head back. He’s still wet. The chill of the evening setting in. People passing by the movie theater are looking at him strangely. He doesn’t care at all. He tugs Kurt closer, into a loose hug. He’s sure that his face is bright red. “Hey,” he says. 

There’s a pause, “Hello.” 

“I’d really like to kiss you right now,” Peter says. 

He’s close enough that he can see Kurt’s pupils widen as he says that. His tongue darts out between those pointed teeth, wetting his bottom lip. That’s more than enough of an answer. 

Peter leans down the short distance between the two of them, and presses his mouth against Kurt’s. He tastes like the blueberry pie Peter had bought for him at the diner and he hums against Peter’s lips. A happy, delighted laugh as he presses closer, tilting his head to a better angle. 

Peter’s changed his mind. This is the best date of his life. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration for Jubilee's dress comes from [Here](https://66.media.tumblr.com/7d631332151947006665ee3e329cbebb/tumblr_pmiwadTNBA1twngz7o4_1280.jpg)
> 
> Peter and Storm's suits are along the lines of [this](https://www.scoopnest.com/user/TheFashionCourt/806346937356156928-michael-fassbender-wore-a-thomsweeney-fall-2016-grey-3-piece-suit-to-the-2016-british-independent-film-awards-over-the-weekend-bifa2016)


End file.
